


Blood and Ice

by paperdreams (rocketsandraccoons)



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Westeros, Eventual Relationships, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Imprisonment, Implied/Referenced Torture, Period Typical Attitudes, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-08 16:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12258276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketsandraccoons/pseuds/paperdreams
Summary: Lord Commander Marsh, murdered by his own men.How poeticSomehow, the story doesn't end there.





	1. Chapter 1

_Why_? He wanted to ask them.

 _How_? He wanted to ask the Gods. _How did it get to this point_?

Where did he go so wrong?

His whole life all he had ever wanted to do what was right. Day in and day our he had tried. By the Gods how he had _tried_. He had tried to stop his fathers insane schemes. Had tried to do right by Kyle and the Broflovski family. Had tried to do right by Wendy. Had tried to do right by the watch. By the Free Folk. By the realm.

He had spent his whole life trying as hard as he could to do what was right, and every time he had failed.

Life at the Wall had been his penance for failure. At first he had gone to investigate how things were really doing on behalf of Ike. After his father betrayed and helped murder Ike and Sheila, he said his vows and took the black.

Men were needed at the Wall, with the army of the dead growing each and every day, he was of more use at Castle Black than anywhere else. It wasn't as if Kyle needed him anymore.

Like Gerald, and Sheila, and Ike, Kyle was dead and gone.

And he was about to join them.

Lord Commander Marsh, murdered by his own men. _How poetic_.

 _At least Clyde is safe_.

It was his only consolation, the fact he had sent his friend south to the Citadel to become a maester. Deep down, he knew that if Clyde had still been at the Wall he would have been as good as dead. Being Stan's friend seemed to be a curse. All of them dying one by one; living horrible, tragic, short lives.

Hopefully the Free Folk would be safe south of the Wall. If he was dying, he hoped it was not in vein. That the Free Folk would remain south of the Wall, safe from the horrors that was coming from everyone.

The God's knew Tweek wasn't going to return north without putting up one hell of a fight.

 _At least I won't have to face the White Walkers again_. He thought, feeling a knife cut through him.

As the seconds ticked by, he felt himself grow weaker. His life draining from him as yet another knife entered his body.

 _How many times?_ He had to wonder. _How many knives? Just the one would have done the job_.

_How many people truly want me dead?_

Was it the Gods punishment for staying behind while Kyle went south? Would things have gone differently if he had taken Kyle up on the offer and rode south with him?

Firkle stood before him, face emotionless.

Stan could feel each, painfully slow, heartbeat. The pulse in his neck slowing.

Firkle's knife slide between his ribs, piercing his heart.

As his body slid backwards he heard the young boy speak.

 _For the Watch_.

A loud howl cut through the air, Sparky's mourning sending the world black.

Where had he gone so wrong?

* * *

 

The wind suddenly changed, a howl in the air that made his hands pause. It was almost familiar, but he pushed the feeling away. It was his imagination, the spark of lightening that flashed across the sky was nothing more than the sign of a storm.

Nostalgia bubbled in his chest, bright blue eyes flashed through his mind and he struggled to push the thought down.

Ever since Red had told him that Ike Broflovski's murderer's son had become _Lord Commander of the Nights Watch_ , he had been struggling. While it had never been easy pretending to be someone else, it had become habit. A habit he was struggling to cling to at the thought of Stan being _alive_. Of Stan being out there and reachable.

 _One Raven_. He had thought desperately to himself one night. _One Raven and I could be free_.

But Stan was a man of honour and he would never abandon the Watch for Kyle.

And he wasn't Kyle. Not anymore.

More than likely, he wasn't ever going to be Kyle again.

Herbert had told him that it was safer for him to be the bastard son of a lowly lord, than the heir to the north and the wanted murderer of the King. Not that Kyle _had_ killed anybody.

So he was to live out his days hidden away as Connor Garrison. Recently found, and newly legitimised son of Herbert Garrison. His hair was a muddy brown, and he spent more time doing next to nothing than anything else. Herbert wasn't exactly his biggest fan, but he had apparently made some kind of profitable deal to keep him safe. He also needed an heir – something he was apparently not working on achieving – and so Connor's existence had become doubly beneficial.

Except Kyle didn't want to spend his life as Connor.

Connor didn't want to live out his life as a lonely fugitive.

Being two people confused him and sometimes he wished, more than anything, that he could forget all about Kyle Broflovski. That he could spend his days as Connor. Get married. Inherit everything from Herbert. Live in relative peace and pretend he wasn't running from the newly crowned King Eric.

Staring at the sky, he waited for the howl to pass. The howl that sounded so like Sparky it hurt.

He had to stop.

Had to stop thinking about Sparky. Had to stop thinking about the Wall.

About Stan.

He wasn't Kyle. He was Connor.

“Son, I have marvellous news.”

Looking away from the window, he met his fathers eyes.

“I found you a wife. All the way up in Winterfell.”

His stomach dropped as his heart froze.

“ _Winterfell_?”

* * *

“Beautiful, aren't they?”

Each step was purposeful as he watched the man's face. A mix of awe and terror danced in his brown eyes, and his own lips twitched upwards.

“I spent my whole life wishing they were real.”

The dragons flew above them, the three of them circling the sky. His babies. His pride and joy. Oh, how he loved them so. Perhaps the only children he was ever likely to have.

“Sometimes stories are not just stories. There is always truth in everything.” He said, quoting his sister.

Karen was and always would be his heir. Everything he did was for her. The marriage. The dragons. The travelling. Each freed slave, and every new ally was for _her_. One day they would return to Westeros, and they would return to Kings Landing. Karen would get to see their home. Her future would be secured, and he would protect her. Always.

“While I'm sure most people find that reassuring, all I can think of are the rumours of White Walkers beyond the Wall.”

Kenny's lips tugged into a frown. “Rumours? They were defeated over a thousand years ago. Surely-”

“Dragons disappeared generations ago, and yet you have three.” Brown eyes met his own blue. “Before I left the Nights Watch were claiming that they had seen the White Walkers.”

He wanted to vehemently deny their existence, but turned to look up at his dragons. There was truth in every story, and if he was to rule the Seven Kingdoms he had to listen to his people. Token had proven on numerous occasions to provide worthy council.

While Kenny had not known the man long, he was almost certain that he would make a fantastic Hand of the King. He had yet to meet a better person for the position. Token had told him everything he could about current Westerosi history. The events that were taken place. Rumours. Murders. War.

It made him feel sick.

Children being punished for the crimes of their parents.

That would not happen when he was on the throne. Children were not their parents; he of all people should know that.

“Would the Wall hold against a- an _army of the dead_?” He sounded sceptical, but who wouldn't? Three Dragons or not, sometimes things truly were unbelievable until they were seen.

“Who knows?” Token shrugged lightly. “There has never been an army of the dead marching on the Wall before.”

“Do you think three Dragons, and my two armies could help?”

Token eyed him carefully. “They would either win the war, or they would lose it completely. Undead Dragons. Can you imagine?”

No.

Unfortunately Kenny's imagination would not allow him to see something so unthinkable. His Dragons were his children and he could not imagine losing them to any fate. Far less a fate worse than death.

“I think if you sail to Westeros you deal with Eric first. There is no telling if there really is dead marching on the Wall, and if there is then all seven Kingdoms would have to work together to defeat the threat. That will never happen with Eric in charge. He would let the Kingdoms die and rule over the ashes if it meant he would still be sat on the throne.”

“Be honest with me, Token. Do you truly believe that the people of Westeros would want me on the throne?”

“Right now, all the common people will care about is surviving winter. The Lords either want to be on Eric's good side, or want him dead. They will not care about who it is that kills and replaces him. Most people that support him are only doing so because he is bribing them. Will they want you specifically? _No_. Your family was ousted. You need to win the right to rule through conquest. Once you have won the throne, people will start supporting you. You are not your parents, Kenny. And out of all the Kings we have had in the passed few years, you are by far the best option.”

 _No pressure_.

A strained smile tugged at his lips. “Is there no chance of winning anyone's favour _before_ I arrive?”

 _Two foreign armies are not likely to inspire support, Kenny_. Karen's voice bounced around his head.

If he had learned anything from Kevin, it was that he had to listen to people. Doing whatever he wanted would get him killed. Doing whatever they wanted and ignoring everyone else was what had killed his parents and his brother. Their footsteps is not what he wanted to follow in.

“Most of those who would have supported you are rumoured to be dead.”

“Rumoured?” Though it was more a statement than a question. “Not confirmed?”

“No.” Token agreed. “Not confirmed.”

The wings of his Dragons beating in sync sounded almost like a howl, and his lips twitched ever so slightly. One day, his children would help win him his home.

Looking down into the gardens, he watched Karen talk animatedly with Bebe.

 _Soon_. He thought to himself. _Soon she will be happy and safe._

 


	2. Chapter 2

“We need to burn the - _ngh_ \- body. It's been too long as it is.”

When the crow had arrived at his camp requesting help he had all but laughed in the boys face. Why would the Wildlings return to the Castle Black to help when they had been so unwilling to help them?

' _It's Stan._ ' The Crow looked devastated, as if what he was saying was only just hitting him. ' _They murdered him, and they're going to kill anyone who was his friend_.'

His blood had run cold. Stan had ran a risk, helping the Free Folk had been something the Crows hadn't agreed with. Everyone had known that what Stan had done was looked down upon. To murder him for it- His blood started to boil as he nodded at the Crow who had come to him.

Rallying the others hadn't been too hard. Stan had gotten them across the Wall, for as long as the Wall stood they were safe. Stan had done what he could to protect them, and he had died for it. They weren't going to stand by and let anyone else die for helping them. Maybe they didn't have the same code of honour that the Southerners had, but if someone saves someone, it was wrong to leave them to the wolves when the roles are reversed.

When the time came, they were all going to be fighting together any way. The living versus the dead. What difference did it make as to who the living were?

“I'll have my men - _ngh_ \- gather the wood.”

Stan wasn't the only man they had to burn, he had killed one of the Crows who had tried to fight him on their arrival at the Wall. Stupid man. There were more Free Folk than there were men of the Nights Watch – which was a worrying thought when he considered it.

When the Nights King came for them, there was too few men left to man the Wall. The land of the living was in jeopardy.

Turning on his heel, he left the room. The Southerners were truly something else. While he understood why Stan's body had yet to burn, it infuriated him that they were dawdling. No one should have to see someone they care about become  _undead_.

“I think that Crow is going to burst something.” Jason was stood just outside, an almost amused expression painted onto his face. “Suppose he deserves it for murdering Marsh.”

“We need to build a pyre.” He responded. “Marsh has been - _ngh_ \- dead too long. That other Crow needs to be - _ngh_ \- burned as well. There's enough dead beyond the Wall, we don't - _ngh_ \- need them on it.” He reached up to tug at the back of his hair. “Gods, these Southerners are re-ally some _thing_.”

“What, spending time with Stan hasn't convinced you to bend the knee yet?”

It took everything he had to suppress the twitch than ran down his spine, though he could feel his eye go. “Have you not met these self-important southoners? Why would I ever want to bend my - _ngh_ \- knee to these bastards?”

Jason hummed in response. “Scott's taken a few men to go get some wood. We can have the pyre's built within the next couple of hours.”

“Good.” Tweek replied. “Make sure there is spare. The Crows might be burning another few bodies in the coming days.”

* * *

When he thought of Winterfell he thought of summer snow. Of sneaking into the crypts late at night with Ike and telling ghost stories. Of going out into the Godswood with Stan and Christophe to go on adventures. Of laughing with the stable hands, and studying with Maester Doctor. When he thought of Winterfell he thought of his mothers grand feasts and passionate speeches. His fathers placation of the lords, while making snide comments behind closed doors.

It was his mothers passion, his fathers quiet calm, Ike's laughter.

When he thought of Winterfell he thought of familiar faces and happiness.

Stepping into the keep all he could feel was the bitter cold.

Randy Marsh met him outside, surrounded by both familiar and unfamiliar faces. A smirk was fixed to his face, something manic lighting up his grey eyes. There was as much white in his hair as there was black, and his skin was yellowing and papery. His cloak and tunic were too large on him, and Kyle felt a twisted spark of satisfaction at seeing his once best friends father falling apart in front of him.

Karma was a bitch, and Randy Marsh was slowly digging his own grave.

 _It would have been more pleasant to have found him dead._  He thought to himself, causing a flash of guilt to run through him.

Despite everything Randy had done to Kyle and his family, he still thought of the man as Stan's father. He knew what it was like to lose his father, and he would never want Stan to go through that.

Watching Lord Gerald Broflovski's head being separated from his body was still the worst thing Kyle had been through. Was still the most twisted and horrific thing he had ever experienced; and he had spent years as a prisoner of the Cartman family.

“Kyle, it has been so long. Look at you!” Randy stumbled forward, hands wrapping around each side of Kyle's face. “You've grown! What a fine young man you have become! Look!” Randy moved, standing by Kyle's side, one hand still clutching half his face. “Look at how your little lord has grown!”

His stomach twisted. The beating of his heart seemed to slow. Each breath of air felt like he was choking on stone.

“It is so good to see you again, my boy.”

Swallowing thickly, he tried to push down the pounding of his blood.

“It has been too long.” He forced out, surprising himself with how neutral he sounded. “How is your wife?”

Lady Sharon. His eyes had been scanning for her since he had entered the keep, but there was no trace of her. While he had never had patience for Randy – a tolerance that had disappeared since the murder of his mother and brother – he had always loved Sharon. A second mother, he had once said to Stan. How she had any patience for her husband was beyond him, and he was desperate to make sure she was alright. With Stan having joined the Watch the only child that remained to her was Shelly – a child that seemed to be more like her father than her mother at times.

Not that Shelly was a child any more.

None of them were.

“Sharon?” Randy questioned with a scoff. “You know Sharon, always doing whatever she wants. Disappearing as if I care.” He waved a hand as if he could wave away the conversation. “Come now son, we have your chambers ready for you, and in a few short days you'll be married, won't that be wonderful.”

His fingers twitched and he gave a stiff nod. “I cannot wait.”

Randy seemed to miss the lack of emotion in his voice, and began leading Kyle through the keep. “Unfortunately, Shelly is my  _only_  heir and as she is from a family of a higher standing than you, you will, of course, have to take the name Marsh. Not that you are likely to mind, walking around with the name Broflovski is like walking around with a target painted to your back. It is much safer too, after all, who in their right mind would trust a Broflovski, eh?”

It took every ounce of will power he had to ignore both the boiling of his blood and Randy Marsh. While he had been highly aware that being married off by the man who had betrayed his family would likely result in the removal of his own surname, listening to Randy's  _encouragement_  made him ill.

Lord Garrison had sold him for reasons Kyle was not one hundred percent sure of. Keeping Kyle safe hidden had won him the favour of the Black family, and had secured him more power in the Vale. What he could get with Kyle losing his family name and returning to be effectively imprisoned in the North was a mystery to him. But then everything Garrison did was a mystery. While the man was an ambitious, aggressive, narcissist, he could be incredibly secretive when he wanted to be.

Whatever it was he was getting for Kyle's marriage must have impressive, and the thought of it made him sick.

* * *

“I heard some fascinating news.” Gregory took a sip of his wine, shining eyes locked onto Token's face. “A little birdy told me that Kyle Broflovski was being escorted to Winterfell.”

For a moment Token seemed to stiffen, fingers tightening around his own glass. “He is alive?”

Token had told Kenny about the Broflovski family. That Gerald had been dubbed a traitor and was publicly executed by King Scott Tenorman. Ike and Sheila had been murdered at Kyle Schwartz's wedding. Kyle Broflovski had been a prisoner in Kings Landing up until the time of King Scott's murder. Kyle disappeared and had been reported dead. During Kyle's time in the Capital Token had done what he could to help, taking pity on the last Broflovski. Apparently they had struck up a tentative friendship.

“Apparently.” Gregory placed his glass on the table. “If what I've heard is correct, he has been sold to the Marsh family for quite a handsome price.”

Kenny felt his own blood boil as Token's jaw twitched.

“Sold?” Both Token and Gregory turned to look at him. “I thought slavery was illegal in Westeros.”

Gregory's eyes widened marginally before he shook his head. “It is. Kyle won't be a slave, it-”

“But he was  _bought_. You said it yourself, he was  _sold to the Marsh family for quite a handsome price_. They paid for him, in some form, which means whether he is a servant or a prisoner he is a  _slave_. By buying someone you are claiming that you own them. To own a person is to take away their right to be a person. Any person who is owned is a  _slave_. He is now  _slave_  to those who betrayed and murdered his family, and  _why_? Everyone thought him dead, he was  _safe_? Why has that changed?”

“Most likely to secure continued support to the Marsh family. No one is particularly  _fond_  of Randy Marsh. By marrying the Kyle to his daughter any child of the union would have Broflovski blood running through their veins. The North are unbelievably loyal to the Broflovski family, the union would prevent any possible rebellion.”

“And that would be all?” Kenny asked, pressing his lips together tightly. “Kyle gets married, has children, lives almost happily ever after?”

Gregory seemed to repress the urge to sigh. “It is likely that once a number of heirs have been produced, that Kyle would be reunited with his family.”

“Is this common practice in Westeros?” His fingers twitched on the table. “Husbands or wives are  _bought_  like dogs in heat? Sold into alliances that they could be removed from once their purpose has been served.”

“Not generally, no.” Token replied, his voice sounding almost strained. “But since Gerald's-” He paused for a second. “ _murder,_ most people have been doing whatever they want with next to no consequence _._ ”

He knew people expected him to hate anyone that bore the name Broflovski or Tenorman or Cartman, but they hadn't started the war. They had  _finished_  it. There would have been no war in the first place if  _his_  father hadn't been bat-shit crazy. He could be bitter towards whomever sat on  _his_  throne – though the more he heard about his fathers predecessors the more he decided he  _hated_  them – but he could not blame them.

One day he would be King, and it would be his duty to ensure that the people in his realm were okay. It would be his duty to uphold the law. That law meant that those sharing Kyle Broflovski's fate would be freed from their marriages. Annulments granted to all those who were bought and sold. Any marriage where a spouse was  _bought_  was not a true marriage.

“The Kingdoms are in chaos, while an army of the dead  _may_  or  _may not_  be gathering to march on them. How convenient for the dead, Westeros may have already signed it's death warrant.”

Gregory let out a laugh. “An army of the dead is less than likely to be real.”

“None of your little birds have picked anything up?”

“Rumours, oh yes. But such stories tend to be just that. The small folk are terrified of the coming winter. Summer lasted a long time, too long. Following every long summer, an equally long winter. The dead cannot walk.”

“But Token said that the men of the Nights Watch are the men who started these rumours. Why would they lie?”

It had been what he had asked himself time and time again since Token had mentioned the possibility. While he did not necessarily believe the rumours, he had to wonder why the Nights Watch would say such a thing. Starting needless rumours in a time of chaos. Telling people the dead are walking despite the fact people would laugh at them- why? Why bother?

“The White Walkers are childrens stories-”

“So are Dragons. So is magic.” Kenny stood up, spreading his hands flat against the wooden table. “Why would the men of the Wall tell  _anyone_  that the White Walkers have been seen as motivation for recruitment if it was a lie?”

Gregory kept his mouth shut, as Token eyed him carefully.

“You believe them?”

“Do people in Westeros believe I have Dragons?”

Token cocked his head to the side. “They are sceptical. It is accepted as a possibility. Nobody has seen them so nobody can be sure if the rumours are true.”

Kenny raised an eyebrow and Token gave a nod of understand.

“If I am to be King of the Seven Kingdoms I cannot just disregard rumours. Everything is a possibility. I have Dragons. I have met Warlocks. I have spent a night on a burning pyre and come away unharmed. I have walked through burning buildings.”  _I have died time and time again and no one ever remembers_. “I have come face to face with magic. To disregard this as a mere rumour without any form of investigation would be foolish. I am  _not_  Kevin _._  I am  _not_  my father. I will not be a fool.

“Every possibility must be considered.”

It was why he listened to every rumour that spilled from Gregory's lips. He had to be aware. Had to understand what he was getting himself into. He could not be naïve when he set foot in Westeros, but nor could he be brash and aggressive. Not  _every_  rumour was true. Paranoia was his fathers downfall, and he would have to be better.

Trusting, but not too trusting.

Aware, but not presumptuous.

There was a line and he had to be careful. Had to walk it with near perfection, a slip up and everything he had worked so hard for could slip through his fingers. If he failed, what would become of Karen? And that wasn't a fate he could dare begin to imagine. He  _had_  to be successful. Had to show the world that he was not his father. That he was better.

Better than the Mad King.

Better than his brother.

Better than Jack Tenorman.

Better than Scott Tenorman.

Better than Eric Cartman.

Monarchs were kind. Just. Fair. Smart.

Monarchs were the servants of their people. The people were not the servants of their Monarch.

* * *

Surprise flooded through him when the door  _opened_. His heart was pounding in his chest, pulse pounding like a war drum by his ear. There were no guards by his door and confusion ran through him. In Kings Landing his door had always been locked, and there was  _always_  guards. Even when he lived with Lord Garrison he had a guard.

Why would Randy allow him to go without?

Shaking that thought from his head, he pressed onwards. Winterfell was his home, and what had started as mere curiosity grew.

_How far could I get?_

Dinner had been more than just uncomfortable. Shelly and Randy had done nothing but insult his family and argue, while Lady Sharon had offered him nothing but sympathetic looks, her lips sealed shut.

Not that he blamed her for remaining silent, he had only given short, clipped answers throughout their meal. Wishing to simply talk to Sharon, the closest thing to family he had seen in years. Randy and Shelly had grated through his reserves of patience quickly, and if it wasn't for his experiences in Kings Landing he would likely have snapped.

If anything good had come from Kings Landing, it would be the control he had gained over his anger.

He had managed to have a quick conversation Lady Sharon, she had apologised profusely and he had told her he didn't blame her, had never blamed it. It had been Randy, she had never deserved to be bound to such a man. Yet she apologised once more, telling him she feared for his future. While the conversation left a bitter taste in his mouth, she had wrapped her arms around him and told him how wonderful it was to see him looking  _well_.

' _At least I get to see one of my boys all grown._ '

She had gently touched his curly hair and frowned, telling him brown was  _not_  his colour.

That night, he had washed the brown from his hair and lay in his childhood bed hoping to fall into a dreamless sleep. The hours had ticked by, but no comfort came from being in his home. Ike wasn't dragging him from his bed on some stupid 'fun orders'. He couldn't hear his mother and father laughing as they walked to their chambers later than usual.

He was home, and the ghosts had followed him.

Stepping outside, the cold air bit at the skin on his face. He had the good sense to dress himself properly before slipping from his chamber.

There wasn't many people milling about so late at night, yet he stuck to the shadows anyway, worried that his hair would give him away. It was strange, to feel like a foreigner in his own home. Yet it made sense, he wasn't there to be Lord Kyle Broflovski. He wasn't there to be anyone's friend – except, perhaps, Lady Sharon. There were so few familiar faces that it felt as if he was trapped in a nightmare; and the faces that were familiar looked at him with either pity or disgust – he wasn't sure what was worse.

His lips twisted upwards wryly, the gates were still open. A few drunken guards stumbling through; no doubt they had enjoyed their night in Winter Town.

A thought slipped through Kyle's mind. Faint. The ghost of a memory. Almost insignificant.

 _Marsh is the new Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. You know, the son of the bastard that murdered Ike Broflovski_.

His heart and lungs seemed to freeze, refusing to work as he took a step forward. Then his heart began pounding steadily. Fear began to bloom in his chest, growing as he got closer and closer to the gate. He stuck to the shadows as best he could, kept his head down and moved.

There was one guard manning the gate and he was too busy talking to someone to really pay attention to who was coming and going.

Kyle kept his head down and as he exited the keep a nervous energy itched under his skin. He kept moving slowly but with purpose until he was sure he was out of sight, and then he  _ran_.

_North. Got to get North. Got to get to the Wall._

What he was going to do at the Wall he didn't know, but it was far safer than Winterfell was. He could figure out a plan there. Work out what he could do, what his options were. First though, he had to get there. Keep himself ahead of whoever might come after him.

He was the last living Broflovski, and he refused to let his family's legacy turn into nothing but imprisonment and murder.


	3. Chapter 3

Hounds.

Of course Randy Marsh had a ridiculous number of hounds. If Kyle had a single coin to his name he would bet it on the hounds having originally been Stan's.

And wasn't that a twisted sense of irony? Kyle was running for the Wall, to get to Stan, and his damn hounds were trying to stop him.

As far as he was concerned it was his own fault. He had stupidly decided to try and get some sleep rather than continue to get a good few hours between himself and any search party. But he had been so. fucking. exhausted, and so had decided to rest. When he opened his eyes the sun was rising and there were faint howls echoing through the air.

He hadn't stopped running. Every muscle in his body burned as he pressed onward. Putting as much distance between Randy's hunting party and himself was of paramount importance. He had to get to the Wall. Had to take control of his own fate for once.

The barking and howling progressively got louder, and fear was pounding through his veins. Wading through _two_ freezing cold rivers had done nothing to hide his scent. Time was working against him, he couldn't outrun hounds indefinitely. His body was freezing and exhausted. Hounds were faster than humans, and that was on good days.

His chest had started rattling when he sucked in a breath at some point, and he was beyond certain that was a bad sign. Maybe he would die before anyone could get a hold of him. He would rather a fever took him than live in the same castle as his brothers murderer.

When he started slowing down significantly, he got angry with himself. Getting caught was not the plan, and he _needed_ his body to co-operate.

But his health had never been the greatest. Running for hours in the cold – through freezing water – was bad for anyone. Never had he ran so hard for so long, the exhaustion in his limbs was screeching at him to stop. He pressed on. Death hadn't claimed him yet, he could go a little longer.

The sound of horses hooves hitting the frozen ground a new wave of fear flooded through him and he pushed forward. Legs shaking as he _tried_ to gain some sort of speed.

It didn't take long for him to just stop, fingers curling into firsts as he tried his best to steal his face. The horses were slowing just behind him. The fact that he couldn't hear the dogs anymore didn't really register in his mind.

Turning around confusion flooded through him.

There were only two horses. One had stopped a little closer to him than the other. A young man was staring at him with curious steel blue eyes. He had short dark hair that looked like it truly needed washed. His brown cloak looked tattered and a little too thin for the coming winter.

“You the one Marsh is looking for?” His voice was nasally and stoic, and Kyle wasn't sure if he he should be wary or not.

“Yeah.”

His eyes flickered to the young mans companion and the familiarity of the apparent male was almost painful. A blond dressed in clothes that looked far too large on him. Wide, bright eyes were staring at Kyle with a mix of shock and recognition. Despite the messily chopped hair, and the over sized male clothes, there was no hiding the femininity. High cheek bones and a soft jaw line. A heart shaped face he had grown accustom to seeing every day when he was in Kings Landing.

“Marjorine.” He breathed out. “What are you doi-”

“ _Butters_.” There was something almost urgent in the way the name was said. “This is _Leopold_ Stotch. My squire. I am Fel- _Craig_.” His jaw twitched slightly.

“Kyle-” And truly, he did not know how Marjorine had made it all the way North with nobody recognising her as a woman. “I- I thought you were dead. They all said they had found your body.” Her bottom lip trembled as tears filled her eyes.

“I wish I was.” He couldn't stop the words from tumbling passed his lips. “But I am definitely not.” Sucking in a deep breath, his chest rattled. “I thought they imprisoned you?”

She shook her head. “No. Token asked Craig to get me out of there, and to try and find you. Then- then you showed up dead, and so we just started looking for somewhere safe. We came North, and then we heard Kyle Broflovski was to marry Lady Shelly Marsh. We came to investigate.”

Relief flooded through him leaving an a deep breath he didn't know he needed to let out.

“Where are you headed?”

“The Wall.” He took in a breath and his chest rattled. Craig eyed him carefully. “I have a- a friend there. I thought I would be safe there until I could come up with a long term plan.”

“The Wall it is. Get on Butters' horse. We'll get you North.”

* * *

Running a hand through his hair he wanted to scream in frustrating. Learning had never bee his strongest point. Sure he had read a lot, but he had an awful habit of only remembering the things which piqued his interest. Which is all fine and well until he actually has to learn things. Training to become a Maester meant he wasn't learning what he wanted to learn, he was having to be taught things he didn't necessarily care about. The less he cared, the less likely he was to remember something.

Stan was _counting_ on him.

Gritting his teeth, he all but slammed the book shut. Nothing was sticking. All he could think about was the damned White Walkers and how he was supposed to be helping his brothers fight against them. What could he possibly do from the Citadel?

Looking around, something in his mind slid into place.

Information.

Hundreds of thousands, no doubt millions of pages worth of information.

His eyes drifted to the book in front of him, a smile suddenly tugged at his lips. The Citadel stored nothing but information on every possible topic. Westeros had survived the Long Night once before, someone _had_ to have recorded it.

Picking the book up off the table, he felt a sudden rush of determination. Becoming a Maester was a worthy position – and if the Wall fell he would likely be welcome in a great number of Keeps – but the training also mean he had access to more information that they would ever have at the Wall.

He wanted to hit himself. Why? Why had he not realised that sooner? It was no doubt one of the reasons Stan had sent him to Old Town to be trained. There were plenty of Maesters in the Seven Kingdoms? Why have one specially trained up unless there were ulterior motives.

By the Gods, for someone who had read so much, he had never been the smartest.

Part of him thought Stan would probably hit him for being so damn slow, but Stan didn't make a habit of hitting people.

Being away from the Wall didn't sit right in his bones. He constantly felt like something was wrong; he had taken a vow and now he was on what could be the other side of the world. If the Wall fell, he wouldn't necessarily find out for _weeks_. If his brothers lost the fight, what would happen to the Seven Kingdoms?

 _There isn't nearly enough men on the Wall to hold back that army_.

“Where is that mind of yours, boy?”

Startled out of thought, he met the mans eye. “With my brothers. I'm worried the Wall will fall before I return.”

The Archmaester let out a dry laugh. “My boy, that Wall has stood for over a thousand years, it's not likely to fall now.”

“The Wall was built to keep out monsters that have never tried to cross it before. There is no guarantee that it will hold against the White Walkers.”

“What on Earth are you babbling about?”

He ground his teeth. It was hardly the first time he had tried to tell them that the White Walkers were real. He had seen them. Had _killed_ one of them – as far as he knew he was the only person in living history to have done so. Yet every time he mentioned what was marching on the Wall, he was ignored.

“If you don't start listening to me, you are going to regret it.” His heart was beating triple time, and he tried to ignore the slight waver in his voice. “The White Walkers are real, and they are coming for us. I am a man of the Nights Watch, bound by oath to protect the realm of the _living_. You cannot possibly believe that something as large as the Wall was built to keep out the _Free Folk_.”

Taking in a breath he closed his eyes for a second, when he opened them again he felt far calmer. “What is left of the Free Folk are on _this_ side of the Wall, you don't think that there is some possible reason for that. For centuries the Watch fought to keep them North of the Wall, why would we suddenly start letting them through unless there was a _reason_ for it.”

The Archmaester didn't believe him. It burned in his eyes and Clyde wanted to scream at everyone.

_Why? Why won't you accept the truth?_

A small part of him could understand. If someone had shown up at Horn Hill and told him the dead were marching on the Wall – he would not be likely to believe them.

Then he considered his younger self, the version of himself who read stories and fantasised about the possibilities of them being real. His father would claim that the rumours were rumours, but he would be inclined to listen – if only to hear something _fantastical_.

“Stories are stories, Clyde.”

“Yeah? Killing a Walker didn't feel like a _story_.” He muttered bitterly, remembering the way the White Walker simply seemed to smash under the force of the Dragonglass. “It felt pretty fucking real.”

* * *

“So...” Craig was staring at him with a bland curiosity over the fire he had built. “How did you escape?”

Part of him was tempted to say he had jumped off the ramparts in an attempt to flee, but he would never have attempted something like that.

“I wouldn't really claim to have escaped.” He shrugged, tugging at the hem of his sleeve. “Escaping sounds like I did something impressive.” _Like jumping off the ramparts_. “I realised my chamber door was unlocked, and then realised there were no guards there. I wanted to see how far I could get before I inevitably had to turn back. When I realised the gates were open and there was only one guard who wasn't even paying attention – I just _left_.”

Craigs lips pulled into a slight frown. “That- That doesn't sound right. You were under the same roof as the man who betrayed your mother and brother- The man who murdered your brother- why would you be left without a guard? Surely for Marshes protection as well as making sure you didn't run off.”

He hadn't thought of that. That he should be guarded to make sure he wouldn't attempt to get revenge. Guards had symbolised his own imprisonment for so long he forgot they also meant to protect.

“Randy's a drunk. He looked as though he was slowly digging his own grave.” Pressing his lips together, the words still didn't feel like the truth as they spilled off his lips. “Maybe he just forgot.”

“The North Remembers.” Marjorine breathed out. “Maybe you had allies.”

Craig nodded. “That sounds more likely. If a drunkard can plot and execute a betrayal and commit murder, he can organise the guard of his prisoner.”

There had been enough familiar face in Winterfell that it made sense. People had always been loyal to his family, they had been loved not feared. But why would he be freed? Surely people would rather he stayed to help? Unless they hoped he would take his home back – which sounded plenty appealing. But he couldn't be sure that the rest of the North would rally behind him.

“Either way, it's mighty good that you got out of there. I can't imagine bein' forced to marry someone who had a hand in murderin' my family.”

Kyle gave a small snort. “I've always hated Shelly. She was always awful to Stan, Ike and I growing up. The fact she was involved with Ike and my mothers death just added wood to the fire.”

“Stan?” Craig asked. “Her brother?”

“Yeah. We were best friends. He was my brothers right hand during the war.”

“Is that who you are going to see at the Wall?” Craig's lips pulled into a firm frown. “Is that a good idea? I mean, his father-”

“He isn't his father.”

“It's pretty convenient that he wasn't killed at the wedding.”

“He wasn't at the wedding.” Kyle pressed his lips together. “He was already at the Wall.” At least, that was what he had heard. Snippets of Randy's heir's life.

“And you are one hundred percent certain he had nothing to do with your families betrayal.” There was a hint of _something_ in Craig's voice. “I cannot walk you into a trap, Kyle.”

The familiarity almost had Kyle snapping, but he repressed the urge. He was hardly a lord anymore, and he had always been the first person to tell his household or friends to _call me Kyle_.

“He joined the Watch.” Years had passed and Kyle had refused to doubt Stan's loyalty. Why would his closest friend betray him? What reason would Stan have to betray the family who cared as much about him as they did their own children? “After the news of the wedding, he joined the Watch rather than return to his father. Even- even if he was involved in the _betrayal_ ,” the words felt like ash on his tongue, a lie he refused to consider. “He is Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, he cannot get involved in matters of the realm. He can give us temporary sanctuary and that is all.”

“You have to be one hundred percent sure, Kyle.”

His heart pounded so hard in his chest he was surprised Marjorine and Craig could not hear it. The Gods were cruel and harsh and he had not believed in them in years, he sent a silent prayer anyway.

 _Please do not let me be wrong_.

Because if there was one thing Kyle had always believed in, it was Stan.

“I am.”

* * *

It was unnatural. The man that flitted around the room as if he had any right to be there.

It was unnatural. The way that foreign, angry, evil sounding words poured from his lips as if such a language belonged near someone so good.

It was unnatural. The way that Ser Jerome watched the man as if he was going to be their saviour.

Stan's saviour.

The last time Tweek had been at the Castle Black, he had been under the impression Ser Jerome had hated the foreign man. That nobody was happy with his presence at the Wall. He certainly wasn't happy with the way he flitted around Stan's body as if he had any right to attempt something so – _unnatural_.

It was one thing for a man to come back as a Wight. It was another to intentionally attempt to bring them back. As if being dead for any amount of time would not change them.

The dead didn't come back. Not really.

Whatever version of Stan that returned – if he did return – would not be the Stan they lost.

What he was glad of, was that he was not the only person who seemed to feel that way. The Crow that had come to ask for the Free Folks help – Kevin – seemed more than a little wary. He was ridiculously pale, and watching the foreign witch – because there was no better term for the man – mutter chants and 'cleanse' Stan's body.

The entire thing was leaving a bitter feeling in Tweeks soul, and Stan's dog kept whining in what he assumed was protest. Tweek wanted to protest too, but the one of the only two Southerner's who ever listened to the Free Folk was dead. The other was on the other side of Westeros, apparently. Which was a bitter shame, because Tweek had liked Clyde – he was funny in a strange sort of way. A little too sensitive, but it wasn't as if Tweek could fault him for that.

Anxiety and paranoia lived in Tweeks soul as if it could consume him at any moment.

When Stan's hair was cut, and a strange salve layered over the stab wounds, Tweek wanted to cry out in exasperation.

 _Leave his body be and let me burn it_. _Let him have a true send off_.

They could drink afterwards, and deal with the traitors the day after. Let the dead be. They were dead, and needed to be burned before they came back.

Although it was strange – and he was not the only one to think so – that Stan had yet to come _back_. No sign of decay and no sign of coming back as a Wight. Stan had told him a man had come back on the Wall before, so why hadn't he? It had been _more_ than enough time for his body to rise.

Nobody had dared to speak, and when the _Witch_ began chanting over and over with his hands held over Stan's torso as though he was something to be worshipped, the air grew heavy. The room suddenly felt hot, as though the Gods were cursing them for attempting something so unnatural. The air felt so heavy that he thought attempting to breath could possibly crush his lungs.

For the first time in his memory, he did not feel the urge to twitch.

If he had not believed in magic before, he did then. There was something in the room with them, watching them. Cursing them.

And it wasn't doing what it was being asked to do.

“It isn't working.” The Witch bit out. “It doesn't make sense.”

Tweek shook his head. “The dead are dead. He needs to be burned.”

Turning on his heel, he left the room. Desperate to breathe air that couldn't possibly crush him from the inside out.

Kevin was on his heels, eyes wet but no tears fell.

“It's a good job Clyde isn't here.” He muttered. “He would be a wreck.”

“Does he know?” Tweek asked, because he knew the Southerners all had ways of keeping each other informed.

“No.” Kevin looked down at the ground, pausing mid-step. “How do you tell someone their closest friend was murdered for doing what was right?”

“How did anyone tell Stan his friends were - _ngh_ \- murdered at a wedding for doing what was right?”

A bell rang throughout the castle and Tweek winced, his heart started pounding. People were yelling.

 _Open the Gate_.

Kevin took in a shaky breath before pulling himself together. “I am Acting Lord Commander, I can do this.”

Tweek followed after him, fingers twitching near his sword. With any luck, the new arrivals would be more men for the Wall, but he was not convinced. The timing was all far too – _convenient_.

By the time they arrived outside, the guests had slid from their horses. Three men- _No_.

The smallest of them was not a man, simply dressed like one. Short hair, bright eyes, far too feminine a face. Stood beside a man with hair the colour of fire. Not ginger, not crimson, not any old shade of the lucky colour. Hair so red it looked as though it could heat the entire Wall.

With them was an incredibly tall man with short dark hair. His face was blank as he took in the Wall, his clothes definitely not warm enough for the Wall or beyond. He was dirty and despite the stoic expression, there was something impossibly wary in his eyes.

Tweek was convinced he had never seen anything more beautiful.

Still, he followed behind Kevin. Not that he was a man of the Nights Watch and had any right to interact with Castle Black business, but then Kevin had asked for his help. Help protecting the lives of those Stan had considered to be friends. For all Tweek knew, these visitors could be a danger.

“What brings you to Castle Black?” Kevin asked, his voice wavering ever so slightly.

The red head looked at Kevin, seeming to be almost disappointed. “I- I heard Stanley Marsh was the Lord Commander. I wish to speak with him.”

The tall, dark haired one looked as though he wanted to do anything but speak to Stan.

“Marsh is dead.” Tweek responded before Kevin could say anything.

The red head looked as if his heart had been carved out. “Wh- What?” The girl wrapped a hand around his upped arm, her face crumpling. “Th- That- What?”

The man looked ready to collapse, and Tweek almost felt guilty about having told him.

“He can't be.”

“He is.” Kevin said quietly. “He was murde-” Kevin stopped talking, at the mention of murder the red head looked as though he was torn between vomiting and committing mass murder himself.

“Murder?” His voice sounded stronger than it had a moment ago. “He was murdered. Of course.” His voice sounded bitter and angry. “Why should I have assumed anything else. Everyone I know always ends up fucking murdered.”

“ _Kyle_.” The dark haired one spoke up, his voice low. “Careful.”

“Careful? Why? Next thing I know you and Mar- _Butters_ are going to have your throats slit in your sleep.”

Tweek did feel guilty, and the name Kyle just made it worse.

“Broflovski?” He asked, because fate couldn't possibly be that cruel.

Stan had died believing his best friend was dead. If this was _that_ Kyle-

“Yeah?”

“You're not dead.” Tweek swallowed. “We're going to burn the - _ngh_ \- body soon. I'm sure you would be allowed to say - _ngh_ \- goodbye first.”

Kevin nodded instantly. “Y-yeah. Of course. Come with me.”

It felt like a dream. Some weird trick that the _Witch_ had cast. But the air outside wasn't heavy, and everything felt _real_.

Kyle's companions came with them, and he wasn't surprised. From what he had heard from Stan, he wasn't surprised that the few loyal to Kyle wouldn't want him going anywhere without them.

The air in the room where Stan was kept still felt heavy. He swallowed and attempted to take a breath. The Witch was gone, and Ser Jerome had been about to leave. Stan's body was still on the table, unmoving. The dog was sat up by the fire, ears pricked upwards.

Kyle slowly approached Stan's body, hands shaking as he touched the mans head.

“I should have sent the damn raven.”

Everything was silent for a moment.

The heavy air made everyone grief feel tangible. And for a moment Tweek was impossibly glad Clyde wasn't there. He could imagine the man clinging to Stan's body and blaming himself for his death.

Instead, Kyle was silent, head bowed with tears dripping down his cheeks and off his chin. Hand shaking as it rested on Stan's forehead.

Stans dog began whining. Low and steady, bouncing off the walls of the room.

For a moment the air felt as though it was crushing the life out of him, and then all he could taste was the grief.

Everything became silent, and he couldn't even hear his own breathing.

Then he heard a gasp. Like a drowning man breaching the surface, and Kyle shot back.

Another gasp and Stan shot upwards, body shaking as his eyes darted around the room.

“ _Kyle_?”

  
  


  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> May or may not make this more than just a one shot.


End file.
